“Ember!” I call. Damn it. I follow her in, tugging down the sleeves on my sweater. Her back is to me again, and she’s stacking cartons of eggs, pulling the oldest ones to the front. “Crap, it’s cold in here. Aren’t you cold?” I ask, rubbing my arms.
Ember doesn’t answer.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I wasn’t growling at you. It was Auntie. She really knows how to piss a person off, you know?”
Ember turns to me, her mouth pursed. “Auntie can be a little rude,” she agrees. “But she’s not mean.”
“I’m not either,” I tell her.
“I heard you yell at Mama when I was wiping down the kitchen a minute ago.”
“I didn’t yell at her.”
“You weren’t nice either.”
“I’m sorry. I was thinking about something else. I took it out on her.”
“She was worried when you didn’t walk to the shop with me. She was afraid . . . maybe you ran away again.” Ember sounds almost sad, like I’ve disappointed her with my behavior.
Strangely, it makes me feel guilty, a heavy feeling like the quilts on my bed in the attic that settle around me at night, as if darkness had weight. Ember hasn’t asked anything of me, or acted put out by the attention her mom has given me or the clothes she bought for me. Ember is nothing like I expected her to be. But me, I’m exactly what everyone expected me to be. Angry, bitter, threatening to lash out or run at every turn.
“Why do you eat lunch in the library?” I ask, changing the subject.
Ember blushes, one hand finding her necklace and holding on to the tiny owl. She ignores the question. “I saw Jasper. He was looking for you. He said you’d bailed early on lunch with him and Grayson and the others.” Her voice catches a little on Grayson’s name.
“Jasper found me later.”
“Jasper’s nice,” she says. “Not like some of the other kids at school. He never acts afraid, even when I accidentally touched him at the shop one day.”
“You touched him?” I ask, my curiosity piqued. “So what’s his greatest desire? His darkest secret?”
Ember shakes her head. “I shouldn’t tell you.”
“Because it’s bad?” I ask. “It must be. Like his greatest desire is to chop people up into little bits.”
No response.
“So then it is something weird. Like he wants to be one of those people with the fetishes on reality TV.”
Ember shakes her head, her mouth twisting into a smile. “He just wants to be happy,” she says.
“How can he not be happy? Everyone in town seems to love him. He’s always smiling.”
“Do you like him?” Ember asks, still holding her owl.
“Yeah, he’s okay.” I think of Shane again, and that heavy feeling. Then it hits me. “Why, do you like him?”
Ember shakes her head. “As a friend,” she says. “I’m pretty sure the only guy I like at school doesn’t know I’m alive. So I’m saving myself for Ren Rogers.”
“Does Ren Rogers go to Rocksaw?”
Ember laughs. “No. He’s a singer from Texas. You really haven’t heard of Ren Rogers from the band Ren and Reckless? I saw them once when they played at the state fair a couple of years ago. Ren Rogers has the most beautiful voice,” she says, and for once that reserve is gone, and her face lights up. “The band has this song, ‘Your Touch,’ and it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Here, let me play it for you.” She starts to pull her phone out of her pocket.
“Can you show me out in the kitchen?” I ask her. “It’s freezing in here.”
“Oh!” she says, surprised, as if she’d forgotten where we’re standing. “Okay. Yeah.” She follows me out into the kitchen, which is empty now.
“Damn it,” she says. “My phone’s dead. I’ll have to play it for you when we get home.”
It’s funny to hear her say when we get home.
Mom and I always referred to the Starlite and every motel before that simply by its name. The Happy Host. The Budget Bunk. The Westport. Even when we had the apartment, we’d called it the Jasmine Dragon because it sat on top of the restaurant, and the two places had seemed like one.
I have a home now. It feels different. But everything in Rocksaw is different.
The tea shop closes at six, so there’s only an hour left for me to wait tables. At a quarter till, I’m wiping tables and putting chairs up so that Ember can come out and sweep up when everyone is gone.
At closing time, Mia locks the front door and turns on a little radio at the front counter. She turns it all the way up on a local country station, and Ember sweeps while Mia follows her with a mop.
I put away my apron in the kitchen, where Auntie is counting the cash from the till.
“So you decided to stay after all,” Auntie says, not looking up from the bills she’s counting.
“I guess so,” I answer.
“Good.” She stuffs the money in a small zippered deposit bag. “This needs to be dropped off at the bank.”
I keep staring at her because no one in their right mind would hand me a deposit bag full of cash. I didn’t think I’d be tested so hard and so soon after I decided to stop running. I think of Mom at the Jasmine Dragon, and I suppress a shiver in the hot kitchen.
“Well?” Auntie says, ignoring the way I’ve hugged my arms to myself. “Can you run it over? The bank is right across the street. There’s a deposit bin next to the front door. The slip’s already in there. Just drop it in.”
“Is this a test?” I ask her, reaching out and taking the bag. She can’t know, I remind myself.
“It’s your job. Now do it.”
I take the bag, tucking it under one arm.
Auntie grins to herself. “Connor used to stop by and take the bag for me. He said a gorgeous broad like me couldn’t be wearing herself out running errands.”
I don’t reply. I don’t know what to say. I file this information along with everything else I know about Connor so far and go out the back door of the kitchen. In the dim light of the alley, I feel the weight of the money in the bag. There’s enough in there that I could put myself up somewhere nice for a while. Maybe a Holiday Inn.
I tuck the bag back under my arm and leave the alley.
Main Street is dead quiet; there is no one to even notice me.
I cross to the bank, a squatty brick building with a crooked Closed sign hanging in the front window. Coins jingle in the bottom of the bag as I walk, a happy tune that sounds like a death march to me.
It would be so easy to run.
My chest feels tight. The coins continue to jingle.
I rub a fist over my breastbone, as if I could loosen this awful feeling that makes it hard to breathe.
When I reach the entrance of the bank, I open the deposit bin beside the front door. I hold the deposit bag in front of me, the weight of it making my arm ache after carrying trays all afternoon.
It would be so easy. A piece of cake. Hell, a piece of pie.
My fingers surprise me as they release the bag. It falls into the dark deposit bin with a clunk when it hits the bottom, far from my reach.
It’s like a hundred pounds are lifted off my shoulders. Relief courses through me.
One thing I know for sure. I wouldn’t have thrown away the Good Year like Mom did.
Ten
AT FIVE O’CLOCK THE NEXT day, Ember points in the direction of Jensen’s Office Supply. “He closes up shop at six, so run down there now if you need something. Did you ask Mama for money? She’ll give you some if you need something for school.”
I shake my head. “I don’t need any.” Mia had bought me basic school supplies before I arrived and clothes on Sunday. I didn’t want to ask her for anything else. The McCabe women aren’t dirt poor and hungry, but they aren’t rolling in cash, either. After the chance they gave me, I don’t feel like I should ask for anything more.
Besides, I’ve got a five-finger discount that’s never let me down. The stationery place will never
even miss what I take.
Ember pulls off her long, bohemian-looking scarf and dangles it out to me. The dress she wears today is a rusty orange with tiny butterflies scattered over the fabric and a pair of well-worn boots and bright-yellow tights. I saw her working on a design for a dress while Mia was cooking dinner last night, before I darted up the stairs claiming I wasn’t hungry again because I felt the walls pressing in, everyone’s voices too loud in my ears from the car ride back to the farmhouse. I think Ember makes a lot of her own clothes, not because she has to, but because it’s her form of art. “Here,” she says, surprising me with her kindness. “It’s getting chilly.”
I take the scarf, and note that the way she holds it, like everything else, is an artful dance of making sure she doesn’t accidentally touch anyone skin-to-skin with her hands. “Thanks,” I tell her. I feel sometimes like we’re two kids on the first day of elementary school, awkward and unsure of what to say to each other.
“I’ll tell Mama you’ve gone out to run an errand.”
She doesn’t add so she doesn’t think you’re running away again, but it’s implied. I don’t blame her. I haven’t exactly been a model of good behavior so far.
Across the street, I spot Grayson and Linc coming out of Lee’s General Store, each of them holding a Gatorade in one hand and a set of shoulder pads in the other, their hair wet and glinting from showering after practice. Ember stares at Grayson, her cheeks flushing. “I’ve got to go,” she says quickly, darting back into the tea shop.
“Bye,” I call to thin air. Across the street, I catch sight of Grayson watching the door close, as if he’d spotted Ember’s flight as well. He looks almost disappointed.
Maybe Mia is rubbing off on me.
I hunch my shoulders against the chill, walking up the street to Jensen’s. A stretch of trees grows in the middle of Main Street, separating the two redbrick lanes. The leaves are blazing orange and gold. It’s idyllic, the kind of town that should be in movies or TV shows about happy families that overcome some minor adversity and open a llama ranch. Ember’s scarf smells like coconut, and I try to remember the last time someone, other than the McCabes, who gave me something just because they could. Maybe it was Shane with his Coke-and-cherry slushes.
The little shops along the way are all busy. At each storefront, people pass in and out of heavy wooden doors with old brass handles and jingling bells that herald each arrival and exit. Everyone nods to me and says hello as I pass. I don’t know most of them, but I give them sort of a nod in reply anyway. I guess that’s what I’m supposed to do in a small town.
Rocksaw is nothing like the city. In the city, you keep your head down and pass by thousands of strangers, never looking at their faces or wondering who they are. In the city, your story is your own. But in Rocksaw, your story belongs to everyone else, too. Adalyn asked me today at lunch why I was staying with my aunt in Rocksaw, as if she had a right to know. And Grayson said he knew my dad before the bull ride that killed him, making that the third different way that I’ve heard of how Connor McCabe died. And in another twist of their lunchtime conversation, Ramani reminisced about how she had so much fun going to homecoming last year with her boyfriend, Jesse, and a quick glance at the recognition on Jasper’s face confirmed that Ramani’s Jesse was Jasper’s mysterious dead brother. Jasper tried to smile at her, the kind of smile that moved his mouth but didn’t go up to his eyes or tug on that thin white scar. But for the rest of the day, he was quiet, his golden-brown eyes looking for something past the faces of his friends, past the hallways of the school. Everyone here knows everyone else’s story, played some part in it.
I don’t think I want any part of my story to belong to someone else, too.
Jensen’s Office Supply smells like licorice when I step inside. It’s smaller than I expected, nothing like the chain stores I’m familiar with. There’s a young woman at the counter ringing up a mother with two squawking kids who are fighting about which one gets to hand over the money. The aisles of the store are narrow and jammed full of merchandise. I skip two rows before I find the art supplies, slipping what I’ve been asked to bring to art class tomorrow into my backpack. A box of pencils, a set of oil paints, a jar of turpentine, another carton of pastels, a sketchbook.
I slip back outside to the sidewalk, letting the door’s bell tinkle behind me.
While I’m distracted by the autumn foliage, I nearly walk straight into an old man heading into Jensen’s.
“Excuse me, miss. Are you all right?” he asks. His back is hunched with the weight of what must be ninety years.
“Sorry. Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Didn’t find what you wanted?” he asks. “If you let me know, I can order it for you.” He smiles at me and points to the Jensen’s Office Supply sign. “I’m Jensen,” he says. “And it looks like you’re leaving empty-handed, so I must have disappointed you.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” I tell him, starting to move past him.
“You look like a McCabe.”
I don’t quite know what to say to that because not only do I look like my mom, the McCabe women don’t look alike at all. The McCabe women are as different as shades of the rainbow, each one reflecting light and color in her own way. But I ignore that and answer him. “I’m Trix McCabe,” I reply, stopping again and turning to face him.
The old man nods, holding out his trembling hand for me to shake. His skin is like dry paper when I take his hand. “Tobias Jensen,” he says. “Nice to meet you.” He smiles. “You know, you look a lot like Connor, actually.”
“I look like my mom,” I tell Tobias, pulling my hand away. Someone in this town should know the truth, and it might as well be this old man.
“It was too bad about that shark attack. Such a bright young man. Used to come in here all the time. He liked to draw, you know. Was always needing a new sketchbook or a box of pencils. He favored the vine charcoal, I believe. Extra soft, for the darkest color. Said you can’t be afraid to draw the shadows.”
Of all the different stories I’ve heard about Connor McCabe and his mysterious life and death, this one about the drawing hits the hardest, the closest to the most vulnerable parts of me. “Did you ever see any of them?” I ask. “Was he any good?”
“He was. Really had a knack for portraits. Capturing the essence of a person on the page. I asked once why he didn’t paint instead. He said portraits were better in black and white because in real life everybody’s just shades of gray.”
I smile hesitantly. “Nothing’s really black and white, is it?”
Tobias smiles back, his teeth yellow from tobacco. “Sure isn’t. Come back again. I’ll see if I can still get those charcoals in. Grumbacher made them, I think . . .”
I nod once goodbye and carry on down the sidewalk, wrapping Ember’s scarf more tightly around me, still thinking of what my dead father once said. You can’t be afraid to draw the shadows. I wonder if he would look at me now and see all shadow or all light. But in the end, it doesn’t matter what he would see. I’m blank space. I never existed for him. And until a few days ago, he never really existed for me, either. But coming here, listening to people’s stories makes him seem more real than he’s ever been.
The wind is stronger now, and the sunset a brilliant orange and pink that reminds me of sherbet that they used to sell at the little bodega around the corner from the Happy Host, a motel I stayed at off and on over the summer. My mind drifts back there, away from this little town, and I let the wind blow my hair back from my face, wishing I could fist my hands into the pockets of my familiar black hoodie.
I wish I hadn’t decided to stop running. I can’t put my finger on why, but now feels like a damn good time to hit the road.
But I promised myself that I was done with running. There’s another feeling creeping up, too. That strange, new, heavy feeling that I think might actually be guilt. I feel guilty for stealing from that old man who tried to tell me about Connor McCabe. My father. The artist. The realizati
on stings like a slap. I’ve never felt guilty about stealing in my life. Why should I? Wasn’t I given this gift to use it?
“Hey!” I can barely hear someone yell over the cranking of an engine. It snaps me back to reality. “Need a ride?”
I look over and it’s Jasper, puttering along beside me in his old black truck until it grinds to a halt. Given the way he was so quiet and withdrawn this afternoon at school, I’m surprised that he’s stopped.
“It’s only a few blocks back to the tea shop,” I tell him.
“Yeah, but it’s getting kind of cold. Cleo’s got a good heater. Replaced the heater core myself a couple weeks ago,” he says through his open window.
“Cleo? That’s right. You named your truck.” I let a smile twist my mouth.
“I told you, everybody names their truck. It’s un-American not to name your truck.” He taps the outside of the door, a hollow thump on the rusty metal. “And what kind of a guy would I be if I didn’t offer you a ride when I see you outside walking?”
“The kind who wants me to enjoy fresh air and exercise?” I prompt.
“Okay,” he says, his face shuttering again, like it did this afternoon. “I can take a hint. See you later.” He moves to put the truck in gear, and I think about my promise not to run away anymore. It would be a lot easier if I actually tried to get to know people, maybe make some friends. Something about the way Jasper’s face closed off again tugs at me, maybe because it reminds me of myself.
“Wait,” I shout. “I’ll take a ride.”
“Pull up and out,” Jasper reminds me as he starts rolling up his window.
I jump down from the sidewalk and hurry around the back of the truck, coughing as I wade through the exhaust fumes. It takes two tries for me to get the correct combination of up and out to get the passenger door open.
“Look at that!” he says, his voice a little strange. Forced brightness. “You got it open on the second try. That must be some kind of record. Award-worthy, even.”
“Let me know if you need help spelling my name for the trophy,” I say, climbing in and slamming the door shut.
A Constellation of Roses Page 10
